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2010-01-06 | |
Neither resplendent nor poor is my love,
As it enters like wind under the waving
clothes, at the hour of oblivion.
Itâ€™s all in all a color that brushes your skin,
and the snowy hills are ready to awake
the dawn, easily sliding at the handsâ€™ tip.
You are calling an old friend,
telling him about lost traces of an acacia
from the ancient garden. Light goes by
as the heartbeats accompany the whisper
reigning over some long row of geese.
Hold your shadow tight, not to escape!
Shout at the eaglesâ€™ eggs! Sorrow has
No name, but the music is spelling
a long forgotten smile. Your half-closed eyes
resemble a blushing thorn in an ice-shell.
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